


The Garden

by Lysol, Nellsie



Series: Lawnsigns: An American Musical [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Bigotry & Prejudice, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysol/pseuds/Lysol, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellsie/pseuds/Nellsie
Summary: Alfred, who is nine and turning ten, is having some trouble with a school project. His dad, a well-meaning, but very closed off military vet, kind of helps.





	1. Chapter 1

_March 2008 - Alfred._

After winter break, they spend a lot of time in English learning about families. The aim is to present a final “my life and family history” project at the end of the year.

From what Alfred’s heard from the fifth and sixth graders, the project itself is pretty open-ended. You give a ten minute presentation on you and your family, bring in a family artifact or photos, and submit a short written summary to the teacher.

The others seem stoked about it, and they spend the afternoon together on Nat’s driveway just pouring over family photos as they get ready. Alfred likes looking at other people’s photos―he likes looking at how they might’ve changed, but he also likes sharing his own.

Malika seems to have the nicest photos― there’s one of her mom and dad and her in the hospital, and she’s newly born, swaddled, wearing a knit cap. There’s a lot of dance photos, she’s deciding to bring her own dance photos and compare them with her mother’s old ones. There’s one when she’s 3, and she’s wearing a pink dress and there’s a butterfly on her finger. A man is holding her and laughing.

“That was from the Seychelles,” Malika explains. “And that’s my grandpa.”

Emil has a delightfully rustic image of his grandparents and mother and a dog, and Leon has a picture of both sets of grandparents at some important-looking family dinner. As for Alfred, he has a picture of his grandpa―the one on his dad’s side―posing at a gun range, and another of his grandma reading the bible to a younger version of his dad and his uncle Stevie. He also has a picture of his grandparents―the ones on his _mother’s_ side―sitting together on their sofa, in their Florida home.

“I was almost named after an Einar Ebling. I don’t know who he is.” Emil says, a bin of markers and pencil crayons next to him as he colors in his poster.

“So you’d be what, Einar Thomassen? What a ridiculous name.” Natalya sneers. “I like you _much_ better as Emil.”

“You never liked me in the first place,” Emil counters, unbothered. One eye is shut in concentration as he colors the borders around his family photos a vibrant blue. Alfred watches him color, impressed―he doesn’t miss a single spot.

“True.”

“Who’s Einar Ebling?” Leon asks Erik. He’s on the ground next to Emil, shuffling through his own family photos with one hand, twirling a long strand of hair in his fingers idly with the other. (Alfred knows that Leon’s been wanting a haircut since forever, and they nearly gave him one in the backyard the other day before Malika chickened out, said that she didn’t want his parents to get mad or whatever if they mess up his hair). Al thinks that it might be more the fact they cut his hair than whatever they might do to mess it up.

“Another math dude?” Alfred guesses. “Since your dad is a, you know, math dude. And both of you are named after math dudes.”

“No, isn’t he like, some German-American missionary?” Iryna starts thoughtfully. “I feel I should have heard that name before.”

“Alfred’s wrong. He was never named after a math dude―he was named after the Swedish television series.” Erik says, smirking. “Emil i Lønneberget.”

“Erik,” Emil says, sitting up almost immediately. “I was  _not_.”

“He even looks like him, look.”

“No!” Emil lunges for Erik’s phone and Erik holds it above his head, but not before Alfred catches a glimpse of what looks like a very blond boy in a cap and overalls.

“He does!” Malika exclaims, wide-eyed and delighted. “I see the resemblance. It’s mostly the hair, I think.”

“He’s too smiley to be Emil,” Leon counters.

“You should listen to the opening,” Erik continues. “Come here, I’ll show you it. Emil really likes it―”

“I do _not!_ _”_ Emil cries, ears turning red.

“―when you sing it to him.”

“Erik!”

* * *

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Al says to Nat when the other three are crowded around Erik’s phone later, chattering excitedly at him.

The conversation went from what-they-almost-got-named (apparently Malika’s parents wanted to name her after some 80s Gospel singer) to Icelandic naming conventions (“―so like, how come your mom and grandparents all have different last names?”), and then from there it sloooowly drifted back to families, but not before taking a detour into the region of God-knows-what, _honestly_ , courtesy of Erik and Leon. Malika was recalling a story about her grandparents taking them surfing in the Seychelles when Al had noticed how downright _miserable_ Nat looked. For most of the afternoon, she just kept to herself and colored.

She’s usually quiet, which is why it took Al so long to notice, but she’s not usually looking so… sad. Sad looks out of place on Natalya’s face, Al thinks.

“What’s wrong?” Al tries.

Nat simply glares in response, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

Al figures that maybe it was because her project looked so… unfinished, at least compared to the others. Malika’s got an essay and trifold ready and a family heirloom―her grandma’s hairpin. Leon has a powerpoint (in hideous 24-pt Kurlz font) and a family album. And Emil’s poster looks very good―there were plenty of pictures of all his different family members, and he’s prepped his presentation with Erik for most of the week, apparently.

“I love your thing, dude. But like, where’s your mom on this?” Al starts, trying not to say that he thinks it looks incomplete, even if it does look to be completely devoid of mom-related stuff. There’s a section on Bill and his parents, and another one on Iryna. There’s a picture of her and Iryna visiting the Empire State Building, and Nat’s a sour-faced, short-haired toddler in a stroller. “You have one, right?”

“Everyone has a mom, dumbshit,” Nat sniffs. “Mine’s just not here at the moment, but she’ll be back.”

Al doesn’t really get that, but he doesn’t want to see Nat like this―sad, curled up near her incomplete and very barren poster, not even coloring at this point, moreso just glaring at the poster.

“You could put her on there, though, even if she’s not here,” he repeats. “She sounds like a real nice lady.”

“You think I have pictures? She left before I could talk.”

“You could put pictures of your stepmom up, too, you know,” Al says. Nat’s dad got remarried for the fourth time two years ago, and her stepmom is real nice―she taught Alfred how to sing some Disney songs in Russian earlier this week. He scoots closer―they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder now.

“I’m not putting pictures of Olga up there. She’s young enough to be our sister; it’s gross.”

Al wants to press some more, because it looks to him that Nat is still sad, but she picks up her poster and moves to the opposite corner of the driveway. He sits there for a moment, wondering if he helped or made her feel even worse, before Leon calls Alfred over because they’re looking at some of Erik’s childhood pictures and he’s splashing around on a beach with his friends, playing with a dog, holding his newly-born, crying brother, and Alfred remembers why he likes looking at people’s childhood photos.

Nat glowers at them from her corner.

* * *

 If Alfred’s being really, _really_ honest, though, he’s having a bit of trouble with this project, too.

On the one hand, it’s kind of interesting. His dad helps him dig through family pictures to find ones he can show the classroom, and Alfred both likes and is good at presentations, so he’s sure that it’ll be easy to talk about his family members. There are just a couple problems.

The first problem is Alfred’s mom, who is gone. He doesn’t know what to do about her―does he include her picture? Does he talk about his limited memory of her, or maybe get a story about her from his dad? Will other kids ask questions about her? Alfred isn’t the best at answering questions about her. She was a pilot, he knows that much. There’s a picture of her wearing a jacket and goggles, and it has _Amanda Jones - Air Force Pilot_ written on the back in simple handwriting.

There’s another picture of her and his dad at the Marine Ball, and another where she holds a barely two-year-old Alfred in her arms and a sparkler in the other, _July 4th_ written on the back in that same handwriting. (People who knew her always say that Alfred doesn’t really resemble her―and he agrees, kind of, but he kind of thinks she had the same smile as he does.)

Of course, then there’s the shift in pictures―where there is no Amanda anymore, and it’s just Alfred and his (vaguely exhausted, sadder-looking) dad. His grandparents from either side of the family occasionally make an appearance, and so does Alfred’s uncle, but mainly it’s just his dad and himself.

Another problem is Alfred’s grandparents, or at least, Alfred’s paternal grandparents. (Alfred learned the word _paternal_ in English class, because of the family unit.) The situation between them is difficult to explain, to say the least.

Alfred doesn’t know the full story―mostly because his dad won’t tell him, and that’s because he’s nine-years-old, but his grandparents aren’t really… together, anymore. They’re married―Alfred knows that because they both still wear the rings―but they don’t live together, or talk to each other, nor do they particularly _want_ to do either of those things, as far as he knows.

Grandpa Jones lives in a trailer park in Missouri as a former Army veteran taking refuge in his well-earned retirement, or at least, that’s how he describes it. Alfred’s dad sometimes grumbles and describes it as “being a deadbeat who thinks serving the country gets you everything” and “insisting that his son is a pansy for not staying in there for thirty more years.”

Alfred has positive memories involving Grandpa Jones. He remembers going out to eat whenever he stayed with his grandpa, mostly due to the fact that his grandpa couldn’t cook and Alfred was too young to go anywhere near a stove. He also remembers being rewarded with a sip from his grandpa’s can of beer if he retrieved it from the refrigerator for him. Alfred would take a sip and say _ew!_ very loudly before handing it over to his laughing grandpa.

Grandma Jones, on the other hand, lives in a trailer park in Texas. She works full-time as a greeter at the local Wal-Mart, and is a religious fanatic, according to Alfred’s dad. She’s the one who raised Alfred’s dad, for the most part. Alfred’s memories of being at her house mostly involve being fed a lot of well made Southern food, and also being read sections from _Genesis_ before going to sleep.

One time he stayed at her house during the final week of October―he had been seven years old―and he remembers her ranting and raving about how he shouldn’t go trick-or-treating that week because _Jesus wouldn’t allow her grandson to celebrate a devil’s holiday_ and _Lord knows your father’s a good Christian and I_ know _he wouldn’t let you go._ He also remembers his dad driving them home on the thirtieth in order to quickly buy Alfred’s _Spider-man_ costume from Party City.

(He remembers talking to his dad on the thirty-first, while they were picking through the pillowcase of candy. “Dad, did we lie to grandma?” He had said.

“Well, I wouldn’t say we _lied,_ kiddo. It’s just your grandma can get a little… fanatical.” Fred said, unwrapping a tootsie roll and taking a bite out of the candy. “I never got to do any of this stuff when _I_ was a kid, so you know, I kinda wanna give you the experience.”

“Some of the church kids say that Halloween is, like, the devil’s birthday and stuff.” Alfred says, chewing on a starburst. Fred shakes his head. “Is that true?”

“Nah, lemme put it this way. The devil, as far as we know, was created, not born. So logically, he couldn’t have a birthday.” He says, before chuckling to himself, “The religious kids say that stuff because they’re upset that _they_ don’t get to go out. Believe me, I used to be one of ‘em.”)

So there’s that complicated situation, piled up with the mom situation, and then there’s the subject of Alfred’s dad. Alfred doesn’t really know what to say about him.

And that’s weird for Alfred, because he kind of figured that out of all his family members, his dad would be the easiest to describe. After all, he actually lives with Fred, and he likes to think he knows his dad somewhat well.

That turns out to be less true than he thought, though. Alfred spends his time staring blankly at his project and trying to think, because part of it asks what his parents do for a living, and Alfred thinks, _well, that’s easy,_ because he knows his dad’s a Marine. He’s just about to write that, too, before realizing, he hasn’t seen his dad go to work in a long time, actually. Of course, Alfred isn’t really sure what military employees do other than fight wars, but he’s pretty sure they don’t stay home all day and watch the Sunday cartoons.

“Hey, uh, dad?” Alfred approaches while his dad is making dinner. They’re having pork chops tonight. His dad is heating up the oil on the stove. “What do you… do you still work?” He asks.

“Difficult question, Junior. Stand back a bit.” Fred says, lifting a pork chop and dropping it into the pan, resulting in a splash of oil and a lot of excess popping. Fred’s a decent cook, but Alfred gets the distinct feeling that he has no idea what he’s doing.

“Dad, do you ever think you could, like, dip the pork chop in instead of just dropping it.” Alfred suggests.

“Holy shit. I mean. Shoot. That’s a good idea.” Fred says, before continuing, “Now, what were you going on about? Something about work?”

“Yeah. Uh. Do you still, like, go to work and stuff?” Alfred kind of has a hard time asking these types of questions―sometimes it feels like there’s a certain amount of distance between him and his dad. The kind that makes it awkward to ask these sort of questions with no context. “My project. I wanted to put down that you’re a marine.”

“Well, I’m a veteran, yeah? It’s just that I’m not in active service, you know?”

Alfred doesn’t know. His dad seems to realize that after a second.

“I don’t really go to any of the events, and I don’t train anymore. That’s why you don’t see your dad being shipped off to some war in the Middle East.” Fred explains, flipping over one porkchop in the pan. “I got discharged not long after your mother left us.”

‘Left us’ is the term Alfred’s dad uses to skirt around Amanda’s death. After all this time, Fred still isn’t too comfortable speaking about it outright.

“Oh.” Alfred says, eyebrows knitting together as he thinks, “That’s… weird. You never told me.”

“You never asked.” Fred replies, “Never really affected us too much, either. ‘Sides, if I hadn’t been discharged who knows where I’d be right now. I might not be here to make you dinner tonight.”

“I still don’t get why you never told me.” He says. “I mean… _why_ did you get discharged?”

Fred hesitates. “I―” Alfred can nearly feel how uncomfortable his dad is. “I don’t talk to anyone about it, really. It’s just… I’ll tell you when you’re older, Alfred. It’s a difficult thing for a kid to understand.”

Alfred doesn’t like that explanation. Doesn’t like the idea that his father doesn’t expect Alfred to understand something he hasn’t even had explained to him. “I’m old enough.”

“No, no, you’re not.” Fred says, “It’s personal. It’s a lot of painful shit―I mean, stuff. I don’t really wanna go digging that up right now, kid. You understand, don’t you?”

Alfred doesn’t.

“Why won’t you just tell me?” He tries again, attempting to wear down his father to an explanation. He expects it to go much like any talk with his father where Alfred tries to get something, be that information or the latest toy or _whatever._ “I’m old enough! You never wanna tell me anything, and―and I deserve to know. How can you know I won’t understand it when you won’t even tell me and it can’t be _that_ bad―”

Fred raises his voice. _“Alfred Freedom Jones.”_ He breaks out Alfred’s ridiculous middle name and immediately, Al knows he’s crossed a line. “I don’t care _what_ you think you’re entitled to know, you’re not. I am your father and you listen to me when you’re living under my roof. Do you understand the words coming out of my goddamn mouth?”

Alfred knows it’s bad when his dad cusses in front of him. He feels nervous and upset and guilty all at once, and it becomes a pool of bad feelings.

Al nods solemnly, eyes on the floor. “I understand.” He tries to ignore the tears swelling in his eyes. Babies cry and Alfred isn’t a baby anymore. “I’m sorry.”

There’s silence, and Fred sighs. “Al. I shouldn’t’ve raised my voice at you, or swore at you. You know I hate doing that sort of thing.” He says, “I guess it’s just that I… _can’t_ talk to you about why I was discharged. Not without bringing up painful memories for myself, and I’d really like to do anything except that. Hell, I barely even talked to my own dad about it.”

Alfred looks up to see that Fred is kneeling to be at eye-level with him.

“You’re a smart kid, and I get that you wanna know everything, but there are just some things you can’t know right now.” He says, “I’ll help you more on your project, but for now let’s just focus on dinner, okay.”

Alfred nods. “Okay.”

Fred ruffles his hair, a fond smile on his face. “Okay, kiddo. I love you, you know that, right?” He says, and Alfred knows. He’s not reminded of it often―Fred has a hard time opening up to anyone, but he knows.

“I love you, too.” Alfred says, and there’s a peaceful sort of quiet, for a minute. Then the smoke alarm goes off. “Dad, the pork chops are burning.”

Dinner is a pleasant, if slightly burnt, meal. Alfred lays in bed thinking about the night preceding it. Despite it all, he likes to think he knows his dad somewhat better now. Maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

_ April 2008 - Leon.  _

“It’s really hot and I want a haircut,” Leon says to his mother on the first Saturday of spring break after he’s finished wiping the counter. “A short one, like right around here.” He gestures slightly below his ears.

“A haircut?” His mother says, loading the last of the dishes into the dryer. “Why? You’ve managed whole summers with long hair and it’s only April.” 

The truth is, he’s a bit sick of long hair―it doesn’t look right on him, he thinks, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that boys _ can  _ have long hair.

He wants to say that he’s managed whole summers with long hair because of his friends. Erik showed him examples of many long-haired warriors throughout history. He and his friends would stop at HMV and browse video games after school.  _ Sephiroth has long hair,  _ Al would say.  _ Legolas has long hair _ , Malika would say, and she’d reach out to tuck hair behind his ear.  _ You’d make a very handsome elf, Leon. _

He hangs the dish towel in its rack.

“Short hair is easier to manage,” Leon says instead.

“Not necessarily,” She points out, letting her own hair out of its bun. “You’d have to get it redone every few months. _ I  _ had short hair in university. Long hair is better because you can just continue letting it grow, and it looks better, too.”

“Long hair doesn’t look as good―” Leon begins.

“Leona!” She says sharply. “I have long hair. Your grandma and all your aunts and cousins have long hair. Are you trying to imply―?”

“ _ No _ _!_ Let me finish. It doesn’t look as good on  _ me _ . And it’s annoying! Alfred and Emil don’t need to deal with―”

“Alfred and Emil are boys! You don’t want to be mistaken for a boy, do you? I don’t want to have to have this discussion with you again.”

Leon wants to say that the issue is more that he is tired of being mistaken for a girl, but he holds his tongue. He’s had this conversation with his parents before, and more than once.

When he was younger, they had little problem with him wanting to “be tomboyish”. They bought him T-shirts and shorts from the boys’ half of The Children’s Place and the Gap. It’s become more of a problem in this past year, though, and he’s taken to wearing his gym strip at school and changing back into the clothes his parents would like him to wear every day after school.

When he and his mother go shopping that afternoon, they run into Malika helping her parents unload the car. Malika shouts a greeting, a shopping bag in each hand. Her elbow-length hair is now shoulder-length.

“We went shopping and got her cleaned up for summer,” Professor Vasseur-Emeka says, closing the car door with her hip, arms full of groceries. Leon and Malika exchange a long look.

“It’s been really hot for April, Mrs. Kirkland,” says Malika.

* * *

 

That night, when his parents are getting ready for bed, he asks them again.

“Please,” he begs, bouncing on his knees between them on the mattress. “I really, really, really want a haircut.  _ Malika’s  _ got a haircut. Malika got a haircut and she’s not a boy. _ Please. _ ”

The next day, his parents get him a haircut.

The lady who cuts Leon’s hair makes small talk while she does so―she asks how long Leon’s been growing his hair, to which the answer is nearly his entire life. Is he sure he wants to cut it, after all, since he’s been growing it for so long, and the answer to that question is a resounding yes―but she doesn’t make as much of a fuss as Leon’s mom, who hovers behind them worriedly.

“Don’t get it too short, maybe shoulder-length is good. She has been growing it out for so long, it’ll be such a waste.”

“I don’t want shoulder-length! We might as well cut more since we’re here.”

“Don’t argue with your mother, young lady.” Keith thumbs through a politics mag behind them, clearly uninterested.

Leon’s new short hair, for the record, rises a little bit above his shoulders. His head feels lighter, and the heat does, in fact, affect him less after the haircut. He doesn’t want to think about why his mother only agreed to let him cut his hair after seeing Malika with a haircut, and he doesn’t want to let her  _ and _ Keith know why he really wanted short hair. The way he sees it, he’ll have to bear with it until University, keep it a secret.

The days afterward prove a couple things to Leon. For one, bedhead is still a problem with short hair, but not so much of one that it takes twenty minutes to correct. There are a less problems involving tangling hair or having to tie it back so it doesn’t get in his face, and the best part is that people call him what he wants to be called.

It’s not perfect―Leon’s mom still corrects anyone who stumbles for a moment before saying  _ she _ or  _ ma’am _ when speaking about or to Leon―but sometimes when Leon talks to someone new they call him a  _ he _ and it feels so good because he knows that he’s supposed to consider it a mistake when they do so, but it isn’t really a mistake. It’s exactly what Leon was trying to do.

“I like your haircut,” Malika says. “We’ll be haircut buddies.”

“I’m just glad school’s over,” Alfred says.

“For a week.”

“Still.”

“School gives me a headache,” Emil says. “School’s never been fun but fourth grade is really hard. I’ll be glad for summer.” 

“Oh, the stress, the  _ horrors _ of elementary school,” Nat says, pretending to swoon.

Emil throws a pillow at her.


	3. Chapter 3

_ April 2008 - Nat. _

“It’s  really hot today and I have slurpee coupons.” Alfred announces Sunday afternoon, producing four wrinkled coupons from one of the many pockets of his cargo shorts. “Aaand there’s the new 7/11 down the street. My dad said yes.” He grins.

“I’ll ask my mom.” Malika slips her flip flops on, and Natalya watches her dart down the street, disappear into her house, and then run breathlessly back in muddy unlaced sneakers a minute later. “She said yes.”

“Let’s go,” Natalya says.

At the same time Leon rolls his eyes and says, “it’s not  _ that _ bad,” so Natalya and Malika look at each other and, as if by an unspoken agreement, they each grab a skinny arm, pulling a complaining Leon to his feet. Leon has short hair now, but Nat thinks she’ll get used to it― it’s very fitting for him. Alfred whoops loudly and runs ahead, hopscotching through a grid drawn on the sidewalk, light-up sneakers flashing. He’s been wearing those sneakers the whole month.

“We’re going out, Mrs. Kirkland!” Malika yells through Leon’s screen door.

“Be back for violin!” Cynthia yells back.

Leon gets banana, Malika gets pineapple, and Alfred’s own slurpee is a terrifying neon blue. Natalya, indecisive over which artificial flavor to choose, passes her cup under every dispenser but the neon blue one, and stirs it with a spoon. The end product is a gross swamp green; she takes a sip and grins.

“Ew.” Alfred says, peering into her cup and making a face.

“Want a sip?” She offers, sneering. She’s a good chunk taller than him, could definitely loom over him if she wanted to. Alfred isn’t a scrawny kid, not like Leon, but Natalya doesn’t think he could beat her in a fight. Mostly because she’s not sure he would agree to fight anyone. (This is very important. Natalya rates all her friends by who is most likely to beat her in a fight.)

They take their drinks outside and sit on the curb. Al discusses his summer plans animatedly with Leon and Malika. Natalya kind of tunes him out, watching the cars, and mentally counting all the red ones she sees, since those are the least common. Most cars that pass by are grey, or the occasional blue.

A moving truck cruises down the street at one point, slowing to round the corner to their cul-de-sac, and they all stop, watching it with interest. Leon glances at his watch.

“I have violin,” he says, jumping up. “You can have my slurpee, Malika.” 

Leon has violin. That means they won’t be counting on him to be back that day―he’d be with  _ Emil _ . It was clear that Alfred has the same idea―eye contact is made, and the flood of giggles from Alfred and Natalya start rolling in.

“Have fun with Emil!” Alfred calls after him.

“Alone!” Natalya adds.

Leon turns around, glaring, making as rude a gesture a nine-year-old knows how to make.

“Stop teasing him about that, guys―it’s not nice!” Malika scolds when he’s out of earshot. “He really didn’t drink that much, did he,” she adds, frowning at his slurpee. “I’ll take it home with me. I want to see who moved in, anyway. Don’t you two?”

“I hope it’s another kid!” Alfred grins. He’s always trying to make friends, and is usually successful in that endeavor. It’s something about how he talks, which can be describe as “loud” and “constantly”―while some adults somehow find it endearing, most other kids find it welcoming.

Natalya personally thinks they could do without another family with a kid, but that was just her. And anyway, even if there was a new kid, they could do with staying away from  _ her  _ friends. Invoking her jealousy wasn’t something anyone would advise - Emil has firsthand experience in that regard.

This train of thought was interrupted by a tell-tale shuffling and cursing, and she didn’t even need to turn before knowing that it was Jack Kirkland―Arthur’s dad, and the only drunk to live around this part of the suburbs―back from a night of drinking. Natalya didn’t know a lot about him, or where he could find a bar within walking distance in their suburbs, or how he could still live here with that many unpaid bills, as her own dad had put it. Her dad was always saying stuff like that about Jack, and Natalya was hard-pressed to say it wasn’t true.

“He’s drunk again,” Alfred whispers, stating the obvious, not taking his owlishly huge eyes off of the drunk man. The fascination was hard to deny.

“Why would people choose to drink, anyway?” Malika asks, similarly wide-eyed. Worry seeps its way into her expression, brows furrowed, twisting her pleated skirt in her hands. “It looks dangerous.” 

“His wife died in childbirth, or something like that,” Natalya interrupts, as if this explained everything. “That’s what my dad says.”

“So?” 

“So he’s depressed, stupid.” Natalya shrugs. She doesn’t really know what depression  _ is,  _ exactly, aside from being really, really sad. Her dad says it’s an excuse that lazy people use in order to not seem lazy. She’s not sure if that’s true.

“Poor dude.”

He passes a few times, and silence follows him as the children watch him with curiosity. He looks around with confusion a few times, and turns his head in several directions before walking off towards his home. Malika blinks.

“I should, uh. Um.” She has a hard time finding the words. She’s got a couple questions about what she just saw, most of them along the lines of  _ should I have helped _ and  _ why doesn’t he know where his own house is? _ She has a feeling those will go unanswered.

“You should, uh.” Nat replies, trailing off similarly. Her dad got drunk, sometimes. Usually he did so at home, while he and his friends watched sports and shouted, and the morning after he’d be sort of irritated at Natalya or Iryna if they talked to him. He didn’t get drunk like Jack Kirkland did.

“I should really get going. My mom’ll wonder. Bye guys!” Malika gets to her feet, holding Leon’s unfinished slurpee as she walks off. Natalya and Alfred watch quietly as she leaves. They’re alone again, it seems.  _ Again. _

“So.” He says. 

“So.” She says. “So, how come we’ve never seen your mom before?  _ She _ didn’t die in childbirth, did she?” Natalya doesn’t really expect Alfred to react in any particular way, and he doesn’t. She says stuff like that all the time, it’s nothing new.

“Oh, uh.” He pauses, trying to figure out how to word what he’s about to say. “No, my mom died in Iraq, or Afghanistan. One of those.” He doesn’t remember all the details, exactly. He was a lot younger when it happened.

“Oh.” Natalya is silent, “Sorry. I mean, it’s not my fault or anything, but I’m sorry it happened to you, I guess.” She’s never been very good at apologies, let alone apologies for something she didn’t do.

Alfred shrugs, “Didn’t happen to me. Happened to my mom.”

“I mean, still. It sort of happened to you. You’re the one growing up without a mom.” She says, and Alfred just sort of stares at the ground by his feet.

“Yeah, I guess.” Alfred says, “This sounds bad, but I don’t remember it that well. I mean, it sucks, but still.” Natalya hates this. It’s gotten too serious. “What about your mom? I haven’t ever seen her.”

It keeps getting worse. Talking about this makes Natalya itchy. They should be talking about school, or repeating jokes from something they watched on TV. This is a lot of… not that. “She and my dad got divorced.” She says, straightening her back a bit. Her teachers tell her not to slouch. “She lives in Belarus.”

“Ah.” Alfred nods. “Do you ever talk to her?” It keeps on going downhill, it seems. Talking about it is weird, and Natalya should really end this conversation.

She shakes her head, “No.” for some reason, she’s not ending this conversation, despite the fact that it makes her stomach churn a bit. Talking about feelings and memories is… gross.

“It’s kinda good to know. That sounds bad, but it’s kinda like,” Alfred breaks the sentence so he can find the words. “you get it, I guess. Arthur gets it, but he’s so―”

Natalya nods, “Arthur.” she says, and that’s pretty much what Alfred means.

“Everyone else sort of… doesn’t, you know? Leon and Malika have moms. They don’t know what it’s like  _ not _ to have one, and that sort of―”

“―It sucks.” Natalya interrupts.

There’s a brief silence. “Yeah,” Alfred says, “it does.”


	4. Chapter 4

_ May 2008 - Alfred. _

There are three framed pictures of Alfred’s mom on the walls in their living room, and there are two smaller framed ones on his dad’s nightstand. Sometimes, when his friends are over, they look at the photos and ask him about her. 

Alfred never really knows what to say, other than that she was his mom, and he remembers her smiling a lot. He remembers that when she was alive his dad smiled more. Then, after he explains these things, they get silent and proceed to either press on about how his mom was, or drop it and move onto a lighter subject. Alfred always urges the latter.

When adults see the pictures, they love to point out how Alfred is shaping up to look  _ just _ like his dad (and simultaneously nothing like his mother, but they’ll never really  _ say _ that. They think it though, and they tell his father about what they think later.  _ Is he really _ and  _ was she really _ and  _ but Alfred doesn’t look―) _

He doesn’t really know much about Amanda Jones, other than that her maiden name was Smith, and that she and his dad fell in love while serving in the Marine corps. People always describe her as  _ kind, _ but Alfred likes to think there was more to her than just being nice and married to his dad.

His dad, on the other hand, never really knows how to describe Amanda, but Fred has never been very good with words in the first place.

It’s odd, Alfred doesn’t know what standard he sets for his dad. Fred isn’t a particularly old father, unlike Emil’s dad, but he isn’t as young as Leon’s dad. He’s a quiet sort of man, speaking up when prompted yet strangely distant if they try to have a deep conversation. Still, Alfred reckons he should be grateful, after all, Fred isn’t  _ good for nothing,  _ like Arthur Kirkland’s father.

People say all sorts of things about Jack Kirkland. They talk about how he’s a drunk and how he’s an embarrassment to the neighborhood since they’ve moved in at the end of August 2005 and how they are  _ so, so sorry _ for his children. That’s the long and short of it, as far as Alfred understands, and he knows  _ his _ dad isn’t like that. 

Fred drinks, but not like Jack Kirkland does. Fred smokes, but he’s been trying to quit for years. Fred spends hours upon hours upon hours sitting silently and watching TV―though Alfred gets the distinct feeling he’s not really  _ watching _ the TV, instead it plays in the background―but he isn’t like Jack Kirkland, and Alfred supposes that might be a good enough standard to set.

Speaking of Jack Kirkland, Alfred is going to his house today. He’s actually been sort of buzzed about it, because after days and days of wearing Arthur Kirkland down―and Alfred is really good at wearing people down―he gets to go to his house.

Arthur is one of Alfred’s favorite people to wear down, too, because it always feels like a victory. Mostly because Arthur always makes a huge deal about it―with the sighing and the groaning and the  _ alright, fine _ ’s. This time, he and Alfred have an agreement. Arthur used a bunch of big words when they made it, saying that it was a  _ compromise _ between  _ mutual parties _ that Alfred not make a big deal about Arthur’s house or his dad or his brothers or their cat. Alfred thinks he can handle that, so he agrees.

He shouts that he’ll be back later as he walks towards the door, but his dad stops him.

“Alfred, can I talk to you? Just a minute. Don’t wanna take up too much of your time.” Fred says, and Alfred turns and follows his father to the living room. Fred takes a seat on the couch, patting the space next to him. “C’mon.”

Alfred takes a seat, tilting his head curiously at his dad. “What’s up?”

“Ah, it’s nothing too important. I just wanted to tell you something before you go to your little friend’s house.” Fred says, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but ‘Arthur Kirkland’ is Jack Kirkland’s son, yeah?”

Alfred nods.

“Now, I’m not trying to nag at you, but don’t go to that boy’s house and embarrass them.” Fred pauses between sentences, and Alfred’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. Didn’t he already have this conversation with Arthur? “I’m sure you know as well as I do that Jack is an alcoholic.”

Oh. “Yeah. Nat says it’s because he’s depressed and stuff. About his wife.”

“Well, she’s not wrong, though I’d word it differently.”

Alfred thinks for a moment, “My mom’s gone, but you’re not like that.”

“We all have different ways of dealing with things, son. Jack Kirkland’s way of dealing with things, as sad as it sounds, is drinking. That doesn’t make him less than a person that you or me, though.”

“Nat’s dad says that people like Jack Kirkland are embarrassments to the neighborhood.” Alfred doesn’t mean to be mean, in any way, but those are the things Bill says. He says a lot of stuff like that, often very loudly.

“Well, Bill’s never known any hardship bigger than a scuff on his shoe, but―” Fred mumbles under his breath and Alfred hears something about  _ trust funds _ and  _ thinks he’s better than everyone, _ but he continues moments later. “Fact is, Jack’s an honest man, if anything. He may be addicted, but that’s not his fault, and it doesn’t make him a bad person. It makes him a victim. Still, you can see he tries.”

“How do you know he tries?” Alfred asks.

“Well, think about it. Think about his kid. Do you ever hear Arthur complaining?”

“No.”

“Does he ever come to school hurt? He ever come to school dirty? Ever say his dad doesn’t try?”

No, no, and no. Arthur is a little defensive about the whole thing, but Alfred feels like he understands why. Whenever kids talk about Jack Kirkland, it’s to make fun of him. If everyone only talked about Fred to make fun of him, Alfred probably would avoid the subject of his dad entirely.

“Dad, you know a lot about this stuff.” Alfred says, and this is… nice. Talks like this with his dad are kind of rare, but Alfred always comes out of them knowing something he didn’t before.

“I’ve been around the block once or twice, kiddo.” Fred places a hand on Alfred’s head and ruffles his hair, “Now, you get going. You’ve been bothering this boy about going to his house for ages, so don’t waste your time here.” Fred smiles. Sometimes, Alfred can kind of see why people say he looks so much like his dad.

* * *

 

In the Kirkland house, there’s one framed picture of Arthur’s mom on their coffee table in the living room. She looks nice―she has Arthur’s green eyes, and she’s smiling in the picture, standing beside a younger, happier looking Jack Kirkland―but Alfred doesn’t stare, and he thinks Arthur might be relieved.

Arthur’s bedroom is full of books―fantasy novels are his favorites, Arthur explains as Alfred pages through a book detailing the escapades of some fantastic adventurer. There’s a Union Jack poster hung on the wall, and everything is neatly put away for the most part. It’s really different from Alfred’s room, which is full of action figures and Nerf guns and Pokémon cards, most of those items littering the floor.

The Kirkland cat is named Marmalade, and she glares at Alfred when first crossing his path. Arthur says it’s fine, she’s unfriendly in general. She’s a fat house cat with light brown fur, and Alfred really, really wants to pet her, but he knows it’s not nice to just go rushing towards animals and petting them.

“Oh come on! She’s not unfriendly, she’s just shy.” A hand lands on top of Arthur and Alfred’s shoulders, and Alfred looks up to see a taller, assumingly teenage boy. He looks like one of the high schoolers, and Alfred finds most of them kind of intimidating, but this one looks down at them with a wide smile. “I’m Arthur’s brother, pleased to meet you, kiddo.”

Arthur’s brother tells Alfred to hold a hand in front of the cat, because that’s how animals get to know you. Marmalade sniffs Alfred’s hand a few times before looking up at him. She quickly nuzzles her head into the palm of Alfred’s hand, as if knowing that’s what it’d take to appease him, before sauntering away. Arthur’s brother laughs and walks off, saying he’s making sandwiches for lunch. Alfred watches him leave with wide eyes.

“She let me pet her!” He says excitedly. “I’m still more into dogs, but gosh. She’s so cute! And she’s so fat―what do you guys feed her?”

“She’s six years old. That’s elderly in cat years, and that’s when they start getting like that, and don’t call Marmalade fat.” Arthur says, “And don’t talk to my brothers. They’re terrible.”

“How?” Alfred says, curious. The one he just talked to seemed friendly.

“They just are.” Arthur huffs. “They’re always making fun of me for being the youngest. It’s irritating.”

Alfred doesn’t push the issue any further, but he gets the distinct feeling that Arthur is exaggerating a little.

Lunch is good―Arthur’s brother asks what kind of sandwiches Alfred likes, and Alfred says ham and cheese―and at one point Arthur’s dad walks in and takes a seat beside them at the table.

“Alfred, good to see you.” Jack says, and a soft smile kind of crosses over his face. “Arthur’s told me about you. Some of the things he said were even positive.” He laughs, and that makes Alfred laugh a little.

“Sandwiches, dad?” Arthur’s brother asks, and Jack hums in approval. “How’s work going?”

“Job hunt’s going okay, got an interview at the supermarket, actually.” Jack says, “Not the best use of my English degree, but what can you do?” That makes Arthur’s brother laugh.

It kind of surprises Alfred, how  _ normal _ it all feels.

Arthur’s family just kind of feels like… a normal family. One that has quirks and bonuses―Alfred’s always wanted brothers. His dad says he has one, technically, but it’s only a half-brother, and he lives all the way in Canada, and Alfred’s never met him, so he doesn’t even count―and it’s kind of weird, because Alfred’s spent a good portion of his life believing that Jack Kirkland was bad… just because.

Alfred’s kind of, really glad he got to go to Arthur’s house. He tells him so while they’re walking back to his own home. Arthur quirks an eyebrow, but says it was no problem letting him come over.

* * *

 

“These fucking drunks,” Bill says, as if there were a crowd of raving drunks crawling about the neighborhood, and not one man who stays out at the bars a little too late.

He, Fred, and Keith sit outside on Bill’s porch, watching as different neighbors walk down the road. Bill and Keith stand near the edge of the porch, occasionally taking sips from their cans of beer. Fred leans back in his seat, focusing on his cigarette. 

Jack Kirkland walks―only sort of stumbling, this time―down the sidewalk with one of his sons. The oldest one, if Fred remembers correctly. 

“God knows they’re ruining it for the rest of us. They should just finish their business and leave, we don’t want people like them here.”

Usually, this comment would go without any protest, but it’s getting real exhausting, hearing the same ignorance and not speaking out on it.

“Go to hell, Bill.” 

There’s silence as Fred puts out his cigarette on the side of his seat. “The rest of us haven’t had a million dollars in our bank account since we were born, and the rest of us at least try to see another man’s side and see that he’s trying.” 

Fred stands up, turning to Bill for a moment. “If this neighborhood affects your delicate, trust fund son-of-a-bitch sensibilities so much, maybe you should consider keeping that to yourself.” He walks off, then. 

Keith takes a sip of his beer. “Damn, what’s his problem?”


	5. Chapter 5

_ May 2008 - Leon. _

“King me.”

Leon is really, really good at checkers. Or maybe Emil is really bad at it. Either way, Leon is winning, and Emil is not a very big fan of losing.

“Let’s find a new game to play.” Emil suggests, his eyebrows furrowed while he looks down at the checkerboard. Most of his pieces are in a little pile on the floor by the board. “This one’s stupid.”

Leon rolls his eyes, “But I  _ like _ this one; I’m winning it.” He says.

“That’s because you’re winning it. And there are better games downstairs.”

Emil dusts himself off as he stands up. They’ve been playing checkers on the carpeted floor of his bedroom for fifteen minutes or so―as soon as Leon finished violin lessons. He was getting tired of lying down anyway.

“I mean, what do you wanna play?” Leon asks, stretching as he stands. “What about Scrabble or Monopoly?” Monopoly lasts forever, but Leon really likes playing it. He likes being the banker. He likes playing Scrabble, but only when he knows he can win. Meaning he hates playing Scrabble against Arthur or Erik or Malika, but he’s mostly fine with playing it with everyone else.

Emil thinks for a moment and shakes his head.

“I don’t really like Scrabble―the letters make my head hurt, and Monopoly takes too long for a school night. What about Twister? I think we have a box for that downstairs.”

“You can’t play Twister with two people.” Leon puts the pieces back into the box.

“Yes you can.” Emil tries to touch his toes. He’s very close.

“Fine. It’s no fun if you play Twister with two people. It’s a party game for a reason.”

“Okay, what do you want to play then that’s not Scrabble or Monopoly or Twister?”

“The Game of Life?” Leon knows Emil has the game―they’ve played before. He finished the game last time rich and successful, with a wife and four children.

“Sure, I guess. It should be in the basement, too.”

So they quietly go downstairs and past the kitchen, where Emil’s mother is talking to someone. Their phone is on speaker as it always is (their dad is hard of hearing), and Leon can hear their teacher on the other end. Emil stiffens in front of him.

“No, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with him―kids develop at different ages! He’s obviously very bright as both of you and his brother are,” she is saying. “That being said, we do notice that he’s been lagging behind the other kids in terms of reading and math since December, and we recommend working through that as a family and keeping track of his progress. Special education is an option we don’t want to consider until―”

That’s all Leon’s able to hear before Emil clears his throat and loudly makes his entry known, causing his mother to put the phone off speaker and go to the other room, continuing their conversation in a quieter voice.

They go downstairs, two steps at a time, Leon being half-dragged by the sleeve and stumbling, and Emil rummages through a pile of old board games and sits down on the concrete of the basement floor with The Game of Life out. Leon recognizes it as Alfred’s old copy because of the crayon marks. 

“Let’s play here,” says Emil, cheeks flushed, his hands balled into fists, staring very intently at the ground. Clearly, what little of the conversation Leon’s heard isn’t meant for his ears. “It’s cooler down here.”


	6. Chapter 6

_June 2008 - Mei._

Her aunt and uncle came to the airport to pick her up that morning, and her aunt told her to sleep―jet lag and whatnot, but since they’ve rolled into their neighborhood she’s been peering out the window, trying to get a feel for the neighborhood.

She had two days to herself between the end of school and the flight which delivered her from Taipei to New York. It was dark and dim on the airplane and dark and dim when she opened the little window but she doodled on a napkin and talked to two flight attendants.

“It’s not normal for a Taiwanese kid to be out of school at the beginning of June, is it?” one of the American flight attendants had said.

“Oh, yes,” the Taiwanese one had said. “They normally get off the first week of July.”

“No! I mean, we’re not normal Taiwanese citizens. I go to an international school, and we get off in the first week of June. My mother’s born in Taiwan, but she’s also a diplomat who grew up in Portugal and Indonesia and studied in the Netherlands.”

She had paused to suck in a deep breath, but also to make sure she’s got her audience’s full and undivided attention.

“Aaand, I was born in the UK and lived with my grandparents in Taiwan mostly because they say that moving around too much is bad for kids, and now I’m going to be living with my father’s sister. They originally lived in California but got jobs in Virginia, so that’s where I’m going. They’re both doctors.”

“And are you going over to study?” The American flight attendant had cut in, which allowed Mei a chance to take another breath.

“Yes! My dad wants me to go to an Ivy League, and he says the job market in America is more better, ‘specially for people who want connections, or to get careers in science. He should know―he does research in medicine.”

They’re in some suburbs. It looks very quiet compared to Tokyo or Hong Kong or Taipei. Quiet but also peaceful, Mei thinks. Quiet and peaceful and pretty Republican. She can tell by the signs planted in the lawns that the car speeds past.

She watches a woman walk a dog, children run through sprinklers. The whole setup looks somehow very, very American, even without said lawnsigns in the yards, which speak praise of John McCain and, to a lesser extent, Sarah Palin.

She’s been reading books about US politics since September, trying to figure out what’ll be in store for her once she lands. Politics is dirty, that’s what her dad always says, but it’s best to know what’s going on politically, too, which is what her mom always says.

They turn into a cul-de-sac and slow down in front of one particular house with gray shingles and white walls. It had a lawn and a garden and a driveway and a garage. Back in Taiwan, she and her grandparents lived in downtown Taipei, a ten minute walk from school. Her aunt tells her that she’d be taking the bus with the other kids here.

And Mei runs around the house and explores the rooms and takes in the new environment―they have a stone fireplace and a backyard and she gets a room all to herself which her aunt and uncle already furnished.

“Tell me about our neighbors,” she begs her aunt after she’s explored every nook and cranny. “What are they like? You said there were kids my age.”

“Aren’t you jetlagged?” Her aunt replies.

“No! Not at all. I’m perfectly fine, _honest._ ”

“Seem kinda off to me,” Her uncle says. “The guy in the next house with the Virgil Goode sign and the, uh,” and he mimes having a big belly with his hands, “he asked us if we spoke any English when we moved in.”

“Oh, yes, that was weird. He goes out on his porch and he was like, all slow, “how you doin’? Speak any English? Not friendly but mocking. Definitely the usual way they greet new neighbors back in Cali, that’s for sure. But then again, we are in the South―”

“Auntie! _The kids,_ ” Mei tries to remind her, filing ‘potentially racist neighbor’ away in her head and making a mental note to check out who this ‘Virgil Goode’ is.

“Oh, yes, the kids! They should be coming back home from school soon, actually. If we get lunch now we should be able to see them when we get back.”

“I don’t want to see them! I just want to know them. Before I see them. So I’m emotionally prepared if they’re hicks or jerks!”

“Emotionally prepared. That’s a big phrase coming out of a nine-year-old.” Her uncle pokes her playfully in the ribs. “The kids seem fine. It’s the adults that’s the issue.”

“I’m almost ten!”

So they drive out to California Pizza Kitchen in the mall and eat and Mei chatters away to their waiter while she works at her pepperoni pizza and drinks apple juice. She doesn’t remember falling victim to jet lag during the drive home, but she does remember waking later that night and missing out on seeing her new neighbors that first day.

* * *

 

Eventually, though, she starts seeing signs of life outside her house.

At first, it was just the two blonde girls in the house next to her, the house with the potentially racist neighbor. Her auntie says she should start this summer off by reviewing next year’s curriculum, but people watching is far more interesting.

They’re both taller than she is, but through her binoculars, she could see that one is slightly older looking, with plaited hair and a round face and friendly-looking blue eyes. She definitely seems to be the more approachable of the two, but maybe that’s just because she reminds Mei of her old homeroom teacher back home. Then Mei starts thinking about the life and grandparents she’s left behind and she can’t really bear to look at the girl anymore, but she does. Sneak peeks through her blinds when they’re outside or playing with the other kids.

Approachable Girl would usually sit on the porch or ride her bike while Younger Girl plays. Sometimes she’d be joined by a tall boy who looked about her age, too. Maybe they were siblings―they certainly looked it, but they’re not together often enough for Mei to be convinced that they are. Maybe they’re _together,_ her brain adds.

Today specifically, they’re joined by a group of other kids on bikes and a pile of naked Barbies. And they all seem to be playing some game with them. Mei uses the word ‘playing’ extremely tentatively, as it actually seems that Younger Girl is lopping the hair off of certain dolls and the _heads_ off of others, holding a pair of huge adult scissors in her small pink hands.

She doesn’t really pay the rest of the kids any attention, instead watching with morbid curiosity as the girl stacks them neatly in a doll head pyramid in the center of the driveway. After watching Toy Story, she’s terrified.

As time passes, Mei notices that even though sometimes there’d be other kids, it’ll consistently be the same quartet, whom she’s nicknamed Doll Murderer, Eyebrow Boy, Smiling Boy, and Glasses Girl.

Eyebrow Boy―a boy with oversized eyebrows―lives next to the two girls, Mei’s noticed, and Smiling Boy lives next to Eyebrow Boy. Smiling Boy smiles a lot―it scares her a little. He reminds her of the laughing kids in clothing adverts who are happy for no discernible reason. Glasses Girl has dark frizzy hair and huge red glasses. Mei thinks that she’s pretty, despite looking nerdy. Mei doesn’t like nerds; a nerd consistently bullied her this year, and she’s never really seen any cute nerds before.

They don’t make a doll head pyramid today. Instead, they just sat on the curb and talked. Doll Murderer smiles a few times, too―she’s _really_ cute when she’s smiling, Mei decides.

She kind of watches them from the window of her house―she doesn’t know how one is supposed to approach other kids in their neighborhood, especially since they’re all together. She can’t just go up to them and introduce herself, that’d be so weird, and she can’t go forever without talking to them, because she likes talking and they seem like interesting people.

Before going to sleep that night, she rehearses several sentences in whispers: I’m Xiaomei Zhang, but call me Mei. I’m new to the States. What’s your name?

Now, she’ll just have to catch one of the kids alone, and she’ll go from there.

* * *

 

As it turns out, she didn’t need to.

That Saturday, after breakfast, Glasses Girl and Smiling Boy show up on her doorstep, and Glasses Girl holds a Tupperware container full of what looked to be huge, lopsided cookies.

“Hi, Xiaomei! Welcome to America, I’m Malika!”

She’s smiling a huge dimpled smile at Mei, and Mei can see that up close, she definitely does have braces. The little bands are blue and purple. Mei stands in her doorway silently, mouth dry. That girl took everything that she wanted to say out of her mouth, and she can’t really think of another opener on the spot.

“I’m Alfred! You can call me Al, if you want, or Fred, but that’d be weird. That’s what people call my dad.” Smiling boy―Alfred, Mei corrects herself―says. “Sorry it’s been a few days, but we wanted to say hi to you since you moved into the neighborhood! We didn’t know our new neighbors had a kid! My dad said they didn’t.”

She’s still staring at them dumbly, unsure of what to say. She wants to explain that her aunt and uncle moved here two months earlier because they found work, and that this is actually her first week in the States because her parents wanted her to finish Primary School in Taiwan, and that she’s here to study, but she doesn’t know how to really start with that since it’s such a long story. Would they just give her the cookies and leave? She doesn’t want that.

“Hold on, you do speak English, right?” And Malika’s passing the cookie container to Al and taking Mei’s hands in hers for a handshake, and she’s so warm about it that Mei still doesn’t know what to say. Her hands are very warm.

Mei tries to go through her head for things she could say, and she finally manages, “I’m Mei. I’m from an international school. In Taiwan.”

“We bought cookies, Mei!” Alfred says. “Malika made them.”

“Sorry if they’re bad, I’m a bad cook,” Malika says, ducking her head apologetically.

“Xiaomei!” Auntie says, coming down the stairs. “What did I tell you about opening doors on your own? You don’t know who could be on the other side!”

Of course, once seeing Malika and Alfred, she invites them into the house to talk.

They all sit at kitchen table, and the cookies- “they’re gingersnap!”- turn out to be fantastic if a little salty, despite claims from Malika that it’d be otherwise. Her aunt brings washed mandarin oranges over as well, tells Mei that she’d be upstairs reviewing patient lists if Mei needs her, and leaves her to the mercy of the other two kids.

She asks them a few questions―tentatively, at first, but after getting used to them, it gets a lot better.

Alfred and Malika go to the same school, along with Doll Murderer―whose name is apparently Natalya, or “Nat”―and Eyebrow Boy―whose name is apparently Leon. They mention a few other children who Mei hasn’t really remembered seeing. Arthur lives a few blocks away and he’s two years older, and apparently he and Leon share a surname. Also, there’s an Emil nearby and he’s kind of shy. Mei leaves those mysteries for another day.

She learns a few other things about Alfred and Malika, too. Alfred plays on the little league team, apparently, and Malika’s dad is a lawyer. Afterwards, Alfred and Malika walk her all around the circle, introducing the occupants of each house to her. Next to her, Nat and her sister Iryna live with their father and his girlfriend. When Mei asks if their father is racist Malika and Al just laugh nervously, and she decides not to push the issue.

Leon and his parents Keith and Cynthia live next to Nat, and Alfred and his dad Alfred live next to Leon. There are two retired couples who live between Alfred and Malika, who lives with her parents, Nnenne and Curtis.

Nat shows up at some point eating blueberries from a glass container. She makes herself known by dribbling her water bottle all over Alfred’s head.

“Hey!” Alfred protests.

“Hi, Nat! I’m Xiaomei, but call me Mei. I’m new. I saw what you did with the dolls through my window. What happened to their heads in the end?”

Nat stares at her a second, blinking.

“What dolls? I didn’t do anything to any dolls.”

She ignores Mei’s hand and wedges herself between Al and Malika. Almost immediately, she starts to complain to them about someone named Bill.

“Bill seems like a real douchebag,” Mei comments at the first opportunity, even though she doesn’t know who Bill is, or even half of what Nat’s mad about. She’s not really sure where she heard the word from, probably some of the older kids at school, but she knows it’s a really bad word, like _hell_ or _fuck_ or _penis_. Malika, who is beside her, makes a small gasp. Alfred snickers into his fist. Mei feels extremely accomplished.

And Nat actually laughs a little at that, offers her some blueberries. There are faded marker stains all over her hands.

“He _is_ a real douchebag,” she corrects. “God, I can’t wait ‘til I move out.”

“Aren’t you nine, like me? You have another nine years. You better sit tight ‘til then.”

“I’m ten in August.”

 Leon appears near much later, vaulting over the fence of his house with a violin case. She almost didn’t notice him, but Al’s yelling his name and going nuts.

He’s startlingly short―shorter than her, even. The violin case is easily half his size. His hoodie is a little too big on him, too baggy. It’s a school hoodie, Mei thinks. “Thomassen” is embroidered on the sleeve; she wonders who or what “Thomassen” is. The name of the school, perhaps?

“Hi, Leon! I’m Xiaomei, or Mei, and I’m new. And Bill is a douchebag.”

Beside her, Alfred and Nat and Malika guffaw. Leon only stares at her a bit more, large eyebrows knit together. His hair is almost red in the sunset.

“You said your name was Xiaomei?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay. So I’m not much of a Mando speaker since my mom’s from Hong Kong, but, uhm, your name. Doesn’t that mean, like, ‘little sister’?”

Al laughs even harder―he’s snorting now.

“Little sister, that’s rich. Hi, Little Sister―”

“No! _Xiǎo_ , as in dawn, and _Měi_ , as in… you know, beauty, or good. Dawn beauty. Dawn, because I was born at dawn, and beauty, because it was a pretty dawn and my parents thought I was a beautiful baby? Most babies come out wrinkled and ugly―”

And she takes a deep breath again to the giggles of her three new friends―

“―but I guess _some_ look reasonably nice―like, I mean, I _was_ born late, so I guess I looked more human than babies born early? Some aren’t fully developed when they come out.”

Leon stares at her more, an eyebrow raised.

“I’ll write it out for you.” She takes a twig and writes her name―張曉美―in the sand carefully. It’s in traditional Chinese, but if Leon’s mother is from Hong Kong, he should be able to read it. The others lean close to try to make sense of the characters, and Mei likes that feeling. Of knowing things other people don’t.

“I don’t read Chinese well,” he says finally, turning to leave. “So I’ll see you guys around, or something.”

“He _is_ half Texan,” Nat says between giggles, as if it explained everything.

“Like, his dad is Texan. Or English, I dunno, his grandparents have British accents,” Alfred says. “Everyone who I know with the last name Kirkland has a British accent for some reason.”

That gets them all started again for some reason.

“Leon doesn’t deal with new people well,” Malika explains once she’s calmed down. “But he’s real nice once you get to know him, I swear!”

“I say he dealt with _Emil_ fine,” Nat says. _Which one was Emil again? The one that lived a few blocks away or the shy one?_

“Emil doesn’t deal with new people well!” Alfred says.

It did solve quite a few mysteries for Mei, in any case. She initially thought that Leon was Chinese or Korean, but then she wasn’t sure because his hair and eyes are much too light, and she then flagged him as ‘racially ambiguous’ in her book, deciding that he’s at least somewhat those. Maybe he has an Asian parent or grandparent. She’s glad the case is closed, at least somewhat.

* * *

 

The next day, Malika invites Nat and Leon to her house so they could put the finishing touches on their history project together. Mei came, too. Malika and Leon are talking about how they need to meet up with Emil for some year-end science project they have yet to do.

“What science project?” Mei says, upside down on Malika’s couch. “I love the sciences, especially plant sciences. I can help.”

“It’s a presentation on any topic from any science unit this year,” Malika explains. “We’re presenting on outer space. So maybe less biology and more astronomy?”

“Me and Alfred are doing ours on insects and their life cycles,” Nat announces.

“Alfred and I,” Leon mumbles next to her. He looks extremely bored.

“Fuck off!” Nat says. “Anyway, _me and Alfred_ are doing our project on insects and their life cycles, and I scared my sister and crybaby Emil away with my carrion beetle. I let Erik hold it, though. It crawled all over his hands and I think it peed on his arm.”

That’s the first time Mei’s heard anyone say the F-word aloud.

“I can’t believe you still call him crybaby Emil,” Leon says, at the same time Malika asks, “and Erik wasn’t scared?”

“Who’s Erik?” Mei says. She’s heard of Arthur and Emil before, but never Erik.

“Nope! Erik’s brave.”

“Who’s Erik?” Mei repeats, a bit louder this time.

“Just some guy,” Nat says, scowling. “It’s no big deal.”

“Emil’s brother,” Malika says. “You know, Emil, the quiet boy? Erik’s thirteen.”

“Yes,” Leon adds very suddenly. “And he plays the violin and he’s on their school’s chess and swim teams. And he bakes, and he’s really smart. And I’m wearing his swim team hoodie. See the ‘Thomassen’ on my arm? He said I could have it because it doesn’t fit him anymore. _Be jealous_.”

“He gave you his hoodie because he’s going through puberty, probably,” Nat says, rolling her eyes. “Kids grow really tall really fast during then. Iryna’s outgrowing clothes faster than we can buy them, and she says that he’s getting really mood-swingy these days. As if he’s the only one! Bill wants them to get married one day,” Nat says, and she says this all very matter-of-factly. “Oh, would you look at that. They’re outside right now.”

Leon doesn’t look, instead covers his face with his hands, apparently overwhelmed with this new information about his idol, and he slides off the couch, but Mei rights herself up and peers out their window curiously. She sees Iryna and the same boy she saw on the first day. She squints a little, trying to figure him out.

She still thinks he and Iryna look alike enough to be siblings, just that Iryna _still_ looks cuter and more approachable. He looks very… drab, standing next to her. Drab and bored and plain. He looks like any other thirteen-year-old boy you could find off the street, in Mei’s humble opinion.

“That’s him?” She says to Nat, unimpressed. She isn’t sure what she expected, but this isn’t it.

“Yup,” she says. “What, were you expecting him to juggle or something?”

* * *

 

Later that day, Mei catches a man in Leon’s front yard planting a sign in the grass. It’s a blue sign, with _McCain for President_ written on it in white letters. Mei opens her mouth and speaks before she thinks.

“You’re not allowed to do that. It’s illegal to put lawn signs on people’s properties without their permission, you know.” She says. “I could report you.”

“Well unfortunately, little lady, you couldn’t. I am the owner of this property.” The man says smugly. He seems annoyed to speak to her at all, but he turns to face her anyway. He’s short, or at least, short for a grown man.

“Oh, so you’re Leon’s dad?” Mei asks. He doesn’t look like she imagined Leon’s dad would look, though she’s not exactly sure what she was expecting. Maybe a nicer looking guy, or one who wasn’t shoving the legs of a sign with McCain’s name printed into it in the ground. “I met him a little while ago. He’s really nice. He told me a lot about you, Mister Kirkland.”

Malika and Nat did too, for the record.

The man quirks a thick eyebrow, “Yeah, my Leona’s a wonderful girl.”

It takes a moment for Mei to process that sentence, and she makes the decision to think about it more later. “Are you a politician, then?” She asks, coming closer. She could remember Leon talking about how his dad is trying his hand at politics. His eyes are very familiar, now that she thinks about it. She’s definitely seen those eyes before. “We saw your face on some lawn signs driving in,” she says.

“I am indeed.” Something about the self-important way he says that makes Mei want to smack him, even though he’s an adult.

“My dad says politics are dirty. He says he’s never met a single good politician. Now that I see one for myself, I think so too. I feel _really_ bad for your Leon.” Mei stresses the word ‘Leon’, turns on her heel, and walks away.

* * *

 

The next evening, Malika suggests they go to Emil’s house to help finish their project, and Mei hadn’t really seen Emil, let alone had any in-depth conversation with him or been to his house, but that more or less sparks her curiosity. Besides, she mostly follows Malika nowadays, anyway.

“We could either get to his house through Nat’s backyard like how Leon does, as they have joined backyards, or we could walk the long way around. Your choice.” Malika says.

“I don’t mind going the long way around,” Mei says. Plus, that way, she’d get to spend more time with Malika, who’s always at school. “I’ve never been out our circle, and Nat’s dad scares me. Are you sure Emil’s parents won’t mind?”

“His dad gets home late, and his mom won’t mind.”

For the record, she’s gotten around to searching up this Virgil Goode dude and he, contrary to his surname, does not seem to be a very ‘good’ person. She does get around to talking with Nat’s dad, too, who is a proud self-described paleoconservative, whatever that means, and when Mei Googles that term, too, she feels very uncomfortable with the stuff that comes up.

So Malika hops on her bike and Mei jogs to keep up, and they go out of the cul-de-sac and Malika points out the 7/11. They talk about school and their favorite books before arriving at Emil’s house―Malika lent Mei her copy of _Watership Down_ a few days ago, and Mei’s pretty far into it.

Iryna’s the one who opens the door. Malika leans her bike against their porch and removes her helmet. Nat and Leon are playing some card game across their coffee table with Emil, and they all look up. Erik is curled up on the couch behind them, his earbuds in as he goes through his iPod idly, a worksheet and an open textbook in his lap.

“Wow, hi, I’ve never seen anyone that white before. Are you albino?” Mei says to the unfamiliar boy. Emil is very, _very_ white. Or no, pale would be the right word. Very very pale everywhere―his hair and face and hands _and_ eyes.

“He’s Emil?” Leon answers for him, getting to his feet and tidying up the cards.

Emil stares at her warily. He doesn’t laugh or even smile. It makes Mei think of the dead boy from _The Grudge_.

“I _know_ he’s Emil. And albino’s not a name, it’s a skin condition. Hey, does he talk?” She directs the question at the older kids, since it really doesn’t look like Emil is going to do a lot of talking today.

“Sure he does,” Iryna says patiently. “He’s very shy, give him time.”

Emil glares at them all.

I’m not some pet dog, I can talk for myself,” he says finally, very grouchily. Mei gets the feeling that this isn’t the best first impression she could have made.

They relocate to the dining table where the poster lay.

Apparently, Leon’s in charge of the introduction, Malika’s in charge of the wrap up, and Emil’s in charge of interesting facts. Someone’s used lots of glitter glue to decorate the poster.

Leon’s introduction is in point form, small print but very neat, and he dots his i’s to the left, Mei notices. Malika’s wrapup is very… Malika, and she wrote a lot for a conclusion and it’s all in sloppy cursive. Mei thinks it’s a handwriting ‘with personality’, that’s what her science teacher used to say about her handwriting.

The Thomassen house is very quiet, for the most part. Erik leans his chair back against the far wall. He and Iryna are talking over their own homework, but very quietly, and he’d occasionally offer her an earbud, their blond heads nearly touching. Mei still doesn’t quite know the nature of their friendship―if they enjoy being together or if they’re _together._ Natalya says it’s the former, or at least she suspects it to be, but Mei can’t just go on one witness’s testimony. She caught a glimpse of their worksheet, though, which looks to be math―she sees number lines and algebra. Ew.

Nat’s sitting on top of their dinner table watching SpongeBob, chewing her nails ragged and eating cheese straight from its package. Which… gross, sure, but whatever. Leon and Emil share a chair across from her and Malika. Leon occasionally offers suggestions or points out stuff.

Emil’s the only one who still has stuff to do; Leon and Malika have already finished their parts of it. When she points the fact out to Malika she just nods, saying that they just wanted to stay with him and provide help should he needs it. When Malika leans forward to inform him of a misspelled word, Mei notices the hand he holds his pencil in. She taps Malika on the shoulder and points.

“He’s left-handed!” She meant to whisper quietly to Malika as Emil quickly scratches the word out and Leon gives him the right spelling. It came out a too little loud and Emil pauses, eyes on the ground, brows furrowed. Leon gives her a long, hard look.

A little voice in her head tells her that maybe she should talk _to_ him, instead of about him. But he looks very focused on what he’s doing and besides, Mei’s far more comfortable around Malika than Emil, who just seems sullen and grumpy and not-as-approachable. She’s not sure what to do, and doesn’t think Emil’s too keen on receiving help from her anyway.

“So? I am, too.” Malika raises an eyebrow, settling back into their shared chair.

“I didn’t notice you being left-handed.” Mei says, “Your parents didn’t force you to use your right?” At Malika’s shake of the head and questioning _no?_ Mei continues, “Lucky, lots of Asian parents will make you do that! Like, my grandma made me write with my right, and my friend from school was made to write with her right, too?”

“Cool,” Malika says, without taking her eyes off Emil’s work. She corrects him once again, and digs in her backpack for an eraser.

“I still use chopsticks with my left, though. Do either of you happen to have a twin, by the way? I don’t. Lefties have a higher chance of being twins, you know. I read all about it in _Scientific American_ on the plane, _”_ Mei rambles, trying to talk to all of them and not just Malika.

“Emil had a twin, but he died in the womb, so he absorbed him.” Erik comments suddenly before turning back to Iryna and continuing their conversation. Mei thinks he might have just said that to shut her up. He turns back to them a moment later and adds, “They shared a placenta, too, so there was a big chance he’d die too. He didn’t die, so we’re lucky. Google ‘Vanishing Twin Syndrome’ if you want to know more.”

“Erik!” Iryna scolds. “Was that really necessary?”

He gets no reaction from everyone else―not even from Natalya, who loves biology and stories involving death and is currently staring at the television―and Mei thinks he almost seemed to wilt from the negative feedback before reverting back to casual teenaged indifference, drumming his pen on the table and pulling out a calculator.

“So he would’ve had an identical twin, then, if they shared a placenta?”

“Yup,” he says, putting his earbuds in again, seemingly over the topic.

Mei turns back to Emil, who quickly returns to writing, apparently listening in, and she watches him write for a few more minutes, big, shaky, uneven letters on the paper. Watching Emil write is like watching paint dry―no wonder he couldn’t get it done in time like the other two.

“He’s holding the pencil wrong.” She comments, turning to the two older children, “I’m guessing writing isn’t a strong point for him, then?”

She’s about to continue that geometry and spelling aren’t strong points for her, but she’s interrupted by a loud _snap_ from Emil’s spot, and turns to see that the lead of the mechanical pencil has broken off because he’s been pushing too hard on it. She opens her mouth, about to tell him that he should write lighter before she notices that he’s crying. He then storms off and runs up the stairs, and Leon follows behind him, but not before glaring at her.

There’s a moment of awkward silence between everyone, before Malika grabs Mei’s hand and leads her forward. “Let’s see what’s happening. We should try to help.” She says.

They find Emil in his room, curled up on the floor beside his bed. Leon is kneeling beside him, trying to comfort him quietly. Mei hears some of what he says between loud hiccuping sobs.

“I hate this―school’s not for me. The teacher called my parents for the third time this week and I’m stupid, _I’m stupid.”_

“You’re not stupid,” Leon soothes, digging in his pockets for tissue.

“You’re not!” Malika affirms, crouching next to him to pat his arm. “You came up with some of the smartest ideas for this project. We’ll take a break and go for a walk outside, how about that?”

“No!”

Mei is bewildered. She’s not sure what she should do, or what she should say- all she knows is that she’s messed up. She turns to the two older kids for guidance.

“You should leave,” Erik says simply.

“‘You’ as in ‘Mei’, or ‘you’ as in ‘all of us’?” Nat asks, sitting on Emil’s toybox and picking her nose.

“All of you.” His voice is cold.

“Maybe go play somewhere else for a bit? Emil wants to be alone,” Iryna adds more diplomatically.

So that’s what they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> parachute kids: http://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/parenting/school-life/chinas-growing-parenting-extreme-sweeps-the-us/news-story/457d87a7426c58a783b5a58a7423fb09
> 
> some notes:  
> \- this chapter takes a real turn huh?  
> \- you know that video that's like "is that a fucking gremlin?" "no i'm a third grader!" that's me @ mei.  
> \- erik and iryna's friendship is up 2 ur interpretation but only we know the truth.


End file.
